Theron, the Assassin of Chaos
by GBrowland
Summary: Mere years after the events of the Titan and Giant wars, trouble emerges on the horizon; trouble that can only be dealt with by Theron, Chaos's loyal second-in-command and assassin. Rated T for cursing.
1. Prologue

October 19th, 2014

Deep in the recesses of Troms , Norway, a hunter chased his prey. An aurora lit up the sky, illuminating the path for the hunter. Not that he needed the extra light, of course.

The prey, a man named Masaf Pzenskci, stumbled through the bramble, almost ready to cheer as he glimpsed back to find that his assailant had lost the trail. Making sure that nobody was watching him, Masaf leapt into a bush, attempting to slow his heart to a more comfortable rate to ensure that he'd be almost impossible to find. Masaf might be called many things, but he was also smart. Unluckily for him, his hunter was smarter.

The said hunter leapt agilely from tree to tree, making sure to make as little noise as possible. Even an expert such as he could make a mistake and give himself away. Seemingly unaffected by the branches pounding his body from every angle like vicious lashes of a whip, the hunter sped his chase, spotting his prey but a few meters from his position. He flicked a throwing knife into his hand and readied himself to throw, several hundred years of throwing practice behind him. He aimed, quickly yet deliberately, imagining only that he would hit Masaf, knowing that even thinking aout failure could compromise his unseen position.

Leading his target by a few meters, the hunter's keen eyes developed use for his prey's strange, stumbling sort of lope, caused most likely by the arrowhead lodged in his calf. The hunter laughed mentally, remembering that moment merely a few hours before. He shook himself slightly. No time for day-dreaming, he told himself, readying his throwing knife once more. As he aimed, the target... stopped running?

Almost confused, the hunter lowered his throwing knife, though still keeping it ready. He observed Masaf as he threw himself into a bush, making at least enough noise to wake a bear.

The hunter cringed at the sound, lowering himself from the tree he was perched in to further observe his prey.

Making almost no noise whatsoever, the assassin crept towards his target, intent on ridding the Titans of yet another weapon dealer. This man, the hunter had been briefed earlier, had supplied the Titan army with the necessary weapons and armor to win a recent skirmish with the Romans, though the shipment had been intercepted by the assassin's men, who dealt the weapons out to the Romans. Had it not been for them, the Romans likely would have lost New Rome that day. The hunter, in fact, had single-handedly assassinated the Titan's demigod leader that day, near-crippling the army. The Titans had chosen another demigod leader, he knew, but this was no time for the past. He steadily approached the bush that Masaf had found shelter in, noticing that the weapon dealer was facing the complete opposite direction.

His hand strayed to his tomahawk, but he decided to savor the kill. He picked up Masaf with little effort and bashed the Mercury-legacy into a tree.

Masaf's eyes bulged as his assailant's dagger found his neck, though only enough to draw blood. Sweat poured down his forehead, mixing with the blood on his face from tripping more times than once during the intense chase.

He gulped shakily. "P-please," he begged, "Spare me, please". He noticed that the assassin, despite Troms 's cold climate, didn't even shiver. He had broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs. Masaf estimated he couldn't be less than 6"3. He wore an unbuttoned soft leather coat over a buttoned white shirt, a red sash on his belt, and knee-high boots over woolen breeches. A hood encompassed almost his entire face, only showing his tanned nose and mouth. His hands were gloved, and two odd-looking gauntlets were on his wrists.  
>He was also, Masaf noted uneasily, armed to the teeth. A bow and quiver hung on his back, obviously ready for use. Two miniature anti-material pistols lie in holsters on his sides, ready for use always. Besides the dagger in his hand and at Masaf's throat, he also had a short sword in a sheath on his side and what appeared to be a long hatchet on his leg. He didn't have to be told twice what it was used for. Despite the hood covering his assailant's face, he sensed that he was raising an eyebrow.<p>

"Spare you? Why should I spare a pitiful scumbag like you? You almost single-handedly wiped out a civilization of your fellow demigods, had it not been for my men. Why should I spare you?"

Masaf realized that this was the man that had made his plans fail. His eyebrows raised in recognition.

He knew that he had to think fast. There was a dagger in his boot, and though he wasn't the quickest fighter...

The assassin, almost sensing his thoughts, slammed him harder into the tree and threw him to the ground, readying his tomahawk. His mouth twisted into a very slight smile, and it was at this moment that Masaf realized that there would be no pity, no mercy for him.

And deep down, he realized that he deserved it.

The hunter stood completely still as Masaf drew his dagger and charged. He almost seemed to smile wider.

Right as Masaf's blade would have pierced his stomach, the hunter twisted out of the way, hooking his dagger with his tomahawk and throwing it to the ground. Even with his prey unarmed right in front of him, he beckoned towards the dagger and Masaf retrieved it, sensing that this man would force him to fight until he was too tired to fight back.

Almost a half-hour was spent on this, the assassin's smile widening every time, but never in happiness, only in amusement.

At the end of the half-hour, Masaf collapsed to the ground, breathing hard, yet with no visible scratches on his body. The assassin stepped up to his unmoving body and flexed his wrist, smiling mentally when his hidden blade emerged from its gauntlet.

He crouched and whispered to Masaf, "While I admire your determination, I'm afraid that you must die, my friend." He didn't sound in the least regretful or pitying. Masaf laid back and relaxed in acceptance. Moments later, he felt a blade meet his jugular, and he was no more, dying almost immediately.

Before his life force faded completely, the assassin felt the slightest bit of compassion, though he hated it.

"My name is Theron. Rest in peace, my friend."

Grateful for yet another mission complete, Theron returned to his master, Chaos, ruler of the Void. Bowing in front of him, as was tradition, Theron awaited his master's appraisal.

"You have done well, my son." Chaos, in his human form, was a thick, heavyset man, who spoke more in your head than out loud, much as Lupa did. He was adorned in a black tuxedo, and his face, and any other skin he showed, were simply diagrams of the galaxy and the constellations solidified into eyes, a nose, a mouth, and an overall ageless face. Though he wasn't easily pleased, he seemed to smile at Theron's kneeling appearance. "You have done as I told you to, and that deserves commendation."

Theron's eyes lit up. "However," Chaos spoke, "I'm afraid I have yet more work for you. My scouts have found a possible uprising of the remaining Titans and monsters on Earth. Specifically, at Camp Half-blood and New Rome."

Theron, though he didn't show it, pulsed with rage, and Chaos sensed this, his face softening, if only the tiniest bit. "I do this, Theron, because you are my second-in-command, and I trust your abilities, and my soldiers are required somewhere else. I will grant you leave with your men, and, if you need them, C Company. I will give you another day, but you must leave by noon tomorrow. Rest well, Theron."

Theron collapsed onto his bed, though he wasn't tired, and couldn't pretend to be. He fingered his tomahawk, and its extremely-fine alloy of Celestial bronze, silver, and mortal steel, along with all of his other blades and arrowheads, could put a notch in a tank. He took pride in helping create it along with Chaos's skilled blacksmiths, including Charles Beckendorf, who he had taken from Elysium.

Beckendorf reminded him of his past at Camp Half-blood, and it was then that solace took him.


	2. A New Life

{Flashback}

It was a calm, peaceful day at Camp Half-blood. The campers were busy appreciating the benefits of their fruitful alliance with New Rome. Some of New Rome's fauns had even come to Camp Half-blood to apply as protectors of the Wild. The alliance between the two factions proved to be extremely valuable, both for trade and military control. This alliance, joined by the Treaty of Aurora, Illinois, had only been signed the previous day, and spirits within both factions were soaring.  
>All spirits, that is, but one.<br>Perseus Jackson, demigod son of Posideon, appropriated leader of Camp Half-blood, had been given the news the day of the treaty that his blood mother and step-father, whom he had grown to love like a real father, had died in a car crash. Crushed, Percy never seemed to leave his cabin much anymore, and his friends gave him space, understanding his situation. Annabeth Chase, however, was a different story.  
>Annabeth, Percy's girlfriend since the end of the Titan War, knew of his parent's death, but figured his being distant was because of discontent with her. She strived to be better, for him, but couldn't find any flaws in herself, evidenced by her fatal flaw, hubris. Fast forward to that evening. Percy lie on his bed, welcoming its comfort in his time of need. Paul Blofis, though not as close to him as Posideon, was always so caring, always knew what to say. You could say it came with being an English teacher.<br>As Percy pondered his loss, Hades appeared to him, a foreboding look on his already-foreboding face.

"Wake up," he seemed to snarl, obviously in a bad mood. Percy, after a moment of hesitation, rose and stared, confused, at the Olympian.  
>"Already awake, then? Bah," Hades grit his teeth and paced the room, momentarily breaking his usual illusion of soft yet ominous contempt for Percy.<br>Confused, Percy asked, "Hades, um, sir? What are you doing here, my lord?" He remembered, now of all times, to kneel, and knelt.  
>Hades stopped pacing and looked at him, his shriveled mask of disgust softening for a moment. "Take my hand," he spoke, after a moment's hesitation, "I'll show you what's bothering me."<p>

Still confused, Percy did as he said and took Hades's wrinkled hand. He was surprised when he and Hades were teleported to the burned husk of an apartment building.

Percy backed up, noticing the numerous fire-trucks and firefighters scattered about, some sifting through the ruins with K-9 dogs. Nobody seemed to pay the strange visitors any mind.

"Can they- Can they see us?," Percy asked after a moment. Hades glanced at him, his face softening more. "No, Perseus. This is but a mere memory. Now, watch those firefighters over there." He beckoned with his greasy head towards a group of men sifting through the ruins.

Cautious, Percy watched as he was told. Nothing interesting seemed to happen until one firefighter called the others over. What he found was strange; what appeared to be half of a sword blade lie shining among the burnt ruins of the apartment. It was discarded, seemingly not very important, and the firefighters continued their work.

A few meters away, Percy's eyes lit with recognition, confusion, sadness, and finally anger as he watched the blade, some sort of half-Celestial bronze and half-mortal steel, discarded. It was obvious that the blade was formed after Luke Castellan's blade, Backbiter, when he still lived, able to kill both mortals and demigods. It was then that he knew that the deaths of his mother and step-father weren't an accident. It was the work of the Titans.

Percy felt like punching a wall, but he only sat down and cried, something he was accustomed to doing for the past few days. He'd been looking for something to blame, and he felt the slightest bit of relief that he'd found something; or rather, someone.

Hades looked down on Percy with a mixture of contempt and pity, pity eventually ruling over. He knelt down and grasped Percy's shoulder, and told him of how his parents had made Elysium, even Paul, who had turned out to be a legacy of Athena, which greatly shell-shocked Percy. He realized then that his parents weren't the only casualties of the apartment fire, and suddenly felt like crying some more for the others that had died. But he didn't. For some reason, when hearing how his parents had fought bravely with makeshift weapons they had lying around, he felt braver, somewhat immune to any more heartbreak.  
>Pain is just weakness leaving the body, a voice spoke ominously inside his head.<p>

Percy recoiled slightly. Who are you?, he asked the voice.

He felt a smile from the nameless being. I am Chaos, creator of the universe, father of the Primordials, ruler of the Void, and I have come to offer you a new life, free of heartbreak and pain, misery and destruction.

Percy, only half-listening to Hades, spoke back, only slightly cautiously. What's the catch? Why wouldn't you help Gaea? Isn't she your daughter?

Chaos's smile died. Patience, young one. I must have your decision. I am willing to take you on as my apprentice, my second-in-command... and, if you so wish it... my assassin.

Percy involuntarily gasped, confusing Hades. I... I accept, my lord.

Chaos smiled yet again. Good choice. Then you must do everything I say for now. Tell Hades to take you back to your cabin, where I will explain everything.

Percy did as he was told and was returned to his cabin. As Hades awkwardly left, Chaos appeared in Percy's mirror, smiling at Percy's initial confusion.

Now, my son, he spoke in Percy's mind, I shall explain.

And explain he did. He told of how he had almost faded, which likely would have either off-set the balance of the galaxy or destroy it completely. This had almost been brought on by the lack of faith from demigods and humans alike, only the Olympians truly knowing who he was. Their faith in their great-grandfather was enough to make him survive, crippled in the Void, for thousands of years. The Olympians, however, could only believe in a nameless, unspeaking entity for so long, and he started fading, slowly yet surely. He believed that the arrival of his own elite fighting force to keep peace in the galaxy would make more believe in him. Percy, it seemed, would be his first recruit.

He explained of his conflicts with Gaea, the Earth Mother, of how she had plotted with Ouranos of his downfall before getting caught up in the birthing of the Titans. For years she slumbered. Many, many years. Chaos almost forgot about her, but kept her on the edge of his mind, always wary of her undeniable power. She was greedy, it seemed, for power, and how else to obtain power than to overthrow the ruler of the galaxy and the Void?

Throughout none of this did Chaos explain exactly what the Void was, and Percy was somewhat scared to ask. He asked how he would be trained, if he was to be his assassin.

Chaos explained of his immortal training ground, also the home of his army, which he called the Vortex. The Vortex's meaning of time was distorted, a hundred years in there only equalling approximately a year in mortal time. Whenever needed, the soldiers in the Vortex were withdrawn for Chaos's wars and skirmishes, still many years behind their strikes. He explained of the abilities and weapons he would grant Percy as his assassin, including increased speed while running and climbing, acute hearing and sight, increased and almost infinite stamina, a sixth sense for traps, and the ability to train and use his own battalion of fighters, and most important, immortality and agelessness, like Chaos and the Olympians. He would be given hidden blades, blades roughly the size of hunting knives, activated by complex wheel-lock systems perfected by his crafters. Whenever he flexed his wrist, they would pop out, providing a painful end for his prey.

Percy felt more and more enticed with every word spoken. The ability to hunt down people that did wrong in the world? Percy itched to sink his new weapons into the flesh of the ones who had burned his parent's apartment down.  
>The memory yet again ignited something in him, but he wasn't forlorn about it anymore. He felt like he did earlier, braver, ready for anything.<p>

Percy, his will hardened, stared at his belongings in the cabin. Could he really leave his friends? But deep down, he knew he had to. Not to mention his not joining Chaos could make him fade, more than likely setting the world into permanent limbo.

"I accept. Take me to the Vortex." Chaos grinned. He took Percy's hand, leading him into a new life.


	3. The First Assignment

AN: Theron is Greek, it means "the hunter".

December 17, 2011

Theron stood in the middle of a small, domed arena, tomahawk and dagger drawn and ready for combat. As at least two hundred bronze, human-shaped automatons stormed the arena, his two hundred and fifty Vortex-years of training kicked in. He waited for the first of the agile automatons to reach him.

One automaton threw a dagger at Theron, who merely deflected it with his dagger. If the automatons felt minor emotions, he thought, they would probably be too surprised to attack. Which is exactly what he was counting on in a real battle. Besides his actual fighting skills, of course.

The first automaton of the wave finally broke through his comrades and threw a blow at Theron with his sword, expecting to hit flesh. What it didn't expect, however, was that Theron would simply step to the side and stab it in the engine, which he knew controlled its every function. Theron pulled his dagger out before it could get jammed into the machinery and moved onto the next one.

The second was more smart. He aimed his spear at Theron while hiding behind his shield, obviously expecting some sort of counterattack. Theron parried the spear with his tomahawk and leapt to the side, rolling on the ground to prevent an injury that could cost him his life. The Vortex is really unforgiving, he thought, remembering his first week here.

Mid-roll, he threw a thunderous kick at the side of the automaton's knee, making it crumple into a heap of bronze, still reaching for its spear.

Automaton after automaton came, yet Theron didn't at all seem fazed by their numbers, dodging just in time to avoid being wounded, countering confused robots. The automatons, while they had life of their own, and knowledge, were recycled from soldier to soldier, and they had never fought someone like this before. His tomahawk and dagger moved in a flurry of motion, stopping only once in a while to rapidly throw a knife or shoot an arrow into an automaton's eye or engine. Theron thought he even saw a few fleeing.

As one stepped up to plate, he hooked its leg away from it, almost tossing it to the side with his powerful legs. It stood up yet again, only to find Theron's powerful fist in its face.

After the first wave was clearing from the arena via magnets in the walls, the second wave came, better equipped this time: this time, some had recurve bows, some throwing weapons, and they obviously knew how to use them.

He pulled his bow out, expertly shooting two automatons that were close together through the eyes, connecting their heads with an arrow shaft. Another fell victim to Theron's throwing knife through the neck, where its jugular would be. It tried in vain to pull it out, but to no avail. It collapsed to the ground, spilling oil from the wound onto the ground and slipping its comrades.

One smart automaton tossed a javelin at Theron, who turned from his previous opponent, now effectively dismantled on the floor, just in time to deftly catch the spear, throwing it back to its owner and piercing its chest.

Two automatons fought Theron together, and he flexed his wrists. Before his opponents knew what was happening, he had already silenced both of them with hid hidden blades.

Several more fell prey to his deadly hidden blades, and he stopped only one in a while to throw his knives.

And thus fell the second wave. Theron readied himself for the third wave, they were unforgiving, destructive, they were known for killing many new recruits, much to the combined dismay and approval of their crafters. They were armed to the teeth: Their belts were adorned with hatchets, trench knives, throwing weapons. Some had longbows, some anti-material pistols, pistols made by Chaos's smiths that could tear a modern spaceship to shreds, leaving little to no evidence that is had ever been there in the first place.

And knowledge shone clearly in their dark eyes.

Theron fought, still without breaking a sweat. More fell prey to his hidden blades, some to his deadly tomahawk-and-dagger technique, some with ranged weapons. One rose to his challenge, but its body was turn into a mangled heap of bronze scraps by his anti-material pistol. He cursed. They were only one-shot weapons. He made sure not to waste his second pistol.

He continued to fight like a demon, only really coming back to consciousness when he wasn't fighting, which was a very small portion of the time. His arrows sang like wraiths as they met his foes, his tomahawk dripped oil as he gracefully clobbered his foes. His fighting technique, perfected by two hundred and fifty years of nothing but fighting, almost seemed more like a melodic dance, his custom-alloyed blades swinging in and out of the wave of elite automatons that now shared the arena with him, leaving little to no life force in their wake. After all his time destroying these automatons in his time at the Vortex, he'd come to enjoy killing, thinking of it more as a sport than a ruthless way to proclaim war, to break alliances. But he withheld these urges, knowing first and foremost that his goal as an assassin was to strive for the greater good in all things.

As the third and final wave ended, Chaos and Beckendorf burst into the arena, Beckendorf sort of scurrying in his crooked lope, Chaos walking steadily, taking his time. As they reached eachother, Chaos seemed to smile.

_Well done, my son_, he spoke clearly in Theron's mind. Theron noted that his voice had grown a lot stronger, more confident in the two hundred and fifty years since his arrival. No longer was he an unknown entity, spoken of only in legends and wives' tales. His army, including Theron's battalion, was around five thousand strong, of all ethnicities, of all backgrounds, of all parents. They were Greeks, mortals, Romans, people who society had given up on yet Chaos had not. Woman and men alike, they all fought and served for one purpose, to rid the galaxy of lesser evils.

Theron stared upon Chaos in wonder, having not seen him in close to fifty Vortex-years. Despite 100 Vortex-years equalling on real-life year, it still felt like 100 years.

Theron bowed to Chaos, and Beckendorf quickly did the same. Chaos spoke again. _Rise, my sons._

As they rose from their kneeling position, Chaos spoke solemnly and deliberately to Theron.

_Do you not regret your becoming an assassin, my son?_

Theron's eyes bulged. Even in his hundreds of years in perfecting the art of only speaking when needed, he felt like bursting. Did he regret it? No. Absolutely not.

He relayed this information to Chaos via mind-speak, and Chaos smiled. _Good, good. Because I have need of you. On Earth, in fact. An assassination target. Or targets, I should say_. At Theron's shocked look, he briefed him.

On Earth, namely North America, a mortal banker had been embezzling funds to the titans, fully aware of his wrongdoings against mankind but enjoying it. Chaos insisted on Theron's going to take him and his accomplices out, knowing that this could be the first step in a staircase for disabling the Titan's resources and weaponry. Mortals didn't seem to know about the conspiracy, any complaints about embezzlement cut off by their men's blades, and some of the bank's employees didn't even have a clue.

_Do you accept, young Theron_? Chaos asked.

Theron, still unseated about the situation, nodded the affirmative, and Beckendorf and Chaos both smiled.

_Perfect_, Chaos said to both of them. _Then let Beckendorf show you to your armoury, and I shall take my leave_.

Before Theron could ask about the armoury, Chaos had already teleported. Theron turned to Beckendorf, and the heavyset black man grinned easily at him. He beckoned for him to follow him.

Neither man spoke for some minutes as they navigated the Vortex. Theron marvelled at the unbelievable rate of growth the Vortex and army alike had shown.

As they approached the armoury, Beckendorf smiled at Theron and nodded for him to go in first. As he did, only slightly uneasily, he gaped at what he saw, forgetting to master his expression for a moment.

On several assorted benches in the room, various scattered pieces of equipment lie. A pair of soft woolen breeches, a white buttoned coat, assorted sheaths for his new weapons, masterfully smithed by Beckendorf and his assistants in his preferred alloy, called Beauregard after Beckendorf's late girlfriend. It was a combined alloy of Celestial bronze, mortal steel, and silver. It was designed into beautiful, ornate weapons that Theron now adorned himself with. He wrapped a red sash he found around his waist, letting the loose ends dangle down between his legs. He found new gauntlets to replace his dull old ones, equipped soft but agile knee-high boots over his new breeches, put on his new leather climbing gloves, and scowled at Beckendorf's expression as he put on the coat and hood.

This, he knew, marked him as Chaos's official assassin, and he was ready for anything.


	4. The First Kill

December 18th, 2011

The hunter was perched on a tree high overlooking Chicago, Illinois. The area's winter chill swept in, and Theron, though he was cold, did not shiver for fear of being discovered, but instead cradled himself deeper into his warm clothing.  
>His becoming an assassin made him feel much more free, and Theron wondered if he would ever felt this way if his parents hadn't died, no matter how disturbing the thought.<p>

Remembering the task at hand, Theron drew his custom-made binoculars to his eyes and swiveled them to his target.

Martin Donald Garfield was talking with a Titan army client on the corner of Logan Square, obviously too distracted with haggling to find Theron's acute eyes and ears trained on him from nearly a mile away.

"What do you need from me?," the old banker all but yelled. "I can't give you everything in the bank, or else my deal with Atlas will be off and I'll be arrested! Is that what you want?"

His client struggled to keep his unassuming misdemeanor, his cheeks reddening with the unspoken insults he wanted to say, but couldn't for sake of endangering their trade pact. "Now, Garfield..."

"And that's another thing!" Garfield was completely yelling now, attracting the attention of some others around them. "If the Titans need my funds, why not come here themselves? I'm tired of hearing this 'Garfield this, Garfield that' baloney! I want to know exactly who I'm..."

His next word was cut off by his client's dagger to his throat. He gasped for air involuntarily and found the dagger deeper into his flesh.

"Now, we'll do this like mature adults..." his client spoke softly yet ominously. Garfield struggled to nod, his balding head becoming pale.

"Mature adults," he squeaked out. His client smiled, but with no happiness in it. "That's the spirit, Garfield." He released his grip on Garfield's throat and threw him to the ground.

As Garfield regained his footing, his client made him look him in the eyes. "Now, the necessary funds WILL be put into the bank account I appropriated, or this dagger, here," he waved the dagger, "will be going right up your rear end, old man. Are we clear?"

Garfield, shocked at anybody speaking to him in that way, stuttered out, "C-crystal... sir."

His client backed off. "Good," he said, smiling, "I'll just be leaving, then. You know where to find me." He winked and walked away.

Garfield seemed to stagger back to his workplace, the James E. Garfield Bank.

Theron's eyes, however, followed his client. If he wanted information, he'd be a prime source of it.

He leapt from the tree he was in, landing deftly and rolling on the concrete to avoid injury, and sprinted after him.

P.J. Hall walked down the street, not noticing the assassin that navigated the tops of the buildings and trees overlooking him. If he had, he might have been able to lose him, as the street was much more hospitable than the tops of Logan Square's buildings, but he didn't notice him, and Theron savored the feeling. He watched P.J. cross the road and used useful leather wings on his coat, secluded as to the point of near-invisibility, to glide to the other side of the road and onto another building.

Once or twice, P.J. looked about him, and Theron was reduced to hiding behind a wall or building, waiting for his attention to move to his destination. Theron estimated the chase to take about two hours.

As P.J. approached his quiet, secluded apartment on the outskirts of town, Theron struck. Making sure that nobody was watching, he leapt on P.J. from behind and covered his mouth with a gloved hand, ensuring that he wouldn't cry for help.

"I'll let go of your mouth, and if you cry for help, expect this blade," he flexed his wrist in front of P.J.'s face, "in your back. Are we clear?" P.J. managed a muffled affirmative.

As Theron released his grip and P.J. gasped for air, Theron bashed his face against the concrete.

"Empty your pockets." P.J. paled, which was exactly what Theron was looking for. He obviously had something useful in there, a key maybe, a bank account number, an address. And P.J. wouldn't expect anything, thinking it was only a mugging.

Much to the assassin's dismay, P.J.'s pockets only held vast amounts of lint, an iPod, and a soda tab.

Deciding that the mugging display couldn't work, Theron bashed his head into the concrete again. "Where does Martin Garfield work?

P.J., so confused by this question, was slammed again into the ground before he answered. "Alright," he said, spitting out a tooth, "Room 1644 at that Holiday Inn across town. Just don't hurt me."

Theron, not expecting that it would be so easy but knowing that it could be a trap or simply a false location, knocked him unconscious and dragged him into an alley.

Around three hours later, he found his destination. A clean Holiday Inn sprouted from the ground among many other unclean buildings, making it seem much better by comparison, albeit more expensive. Theron climbed the side of the building, stopping at what he figured was an acceptable height, and crawled through a window. Checking the room number, he found himself to be in Room 1712. He left the hall and started going down the stairs to the 1600s.

As he finally found and lockpicked Room 1644, he discovered the room to be almost completely deserted. Little to no signs of life were recognizable by someone other than Theron, and he found worthy evidence to make him believe he was moving; moving from the job or just the home, Theron didn't know, but he knew that where his target goes, he goes.

He found a secluded spot in the room and lie in waiting for Garfield to return.

Several hours later, as night fell, Garfield appeared in the doorway, his chubby body struggling to fit through the room door. Two hundred and fifty Vortex-years ago, Theron would have laughed; but not now, because that would compromise his position.

Garfield approached the bathroom, and Theron emerged from the darkness behind him, grabbing him and hauling him roughly against a wall.

Garfield's eyes bulged, and he tried to move. "Let go of me, you barbarian!" He yelled and yelled until Theron thunderously punched him in the face, enough to break the average person's skull.

Garfield, it seemed, didn't have an average skull, but his nose and mouth started bleeding viciously. He quieted down. Theron, taking advantage of the silence, growled ominously. "You have been supplying funds to the Titans for years. Tell me why I should kill you where you stand."

Garfield's eyes bulged even more, and sensing that his life could quite possibly end here, he cowered. "I didn't mean to, a-at first! I was forced into it!" Years of being a professional businessman had taught him how to lie, but Theron looked into his eyes and found a certain smugness, a confidence that he couldn't put his hands on. It was then that Theron knew that this man was lying and that he deserved to be put to justice.

Flexing his wrist, he held the blade up to Garfield's throat, inviting a soft whimper, and growled again. "What is your client's bank account number?"

Garfield's hand involuntarily strayed to his back pocket, and when Theron's eyes followed his hand, Garfield paled.

"It is time, Martin Garfield. Enjoy the afterlife." Theron's hidden blade broke through Garfield's jugular, gushing blood everywhere except for Theron's enchanted clothing. He set him on his couch and closed his eyes with his hands.

"Rest in peace." And he left. His first assignment as Chaos's assassin completed. 


End file.
